Jesus lives in the attic.
I throw darts at him every day.
Please, Lord, don’t let it rain.
A small dart chucked at the ceiling.
He clings to the roof of the car.
I know he’s there on the other side.
A car park please, not too far away.
Another small dart.
Who’s that hanging
in the sky?
My Heavenly Dartboard,
who died for our requests.
The sun shatters against the horizon.
Clouds descend like vultures onto scraps of light.
Who to thank for this violent beauty?
Our Dartboard, who art in heaven.
We sing songs to the Dartboard.
We thank him that we can have a good time and laugh
when we’ve caught ourselves out for joking.
Meanwhile Jesus hides under the seats, giggling with the kids.
We throw around hallelujahs.
They bounce across the room like ping-pong balls,
popping between the (hallelujah) words (amen).
And so we pray:
Our generic god, who just really art in heaven
familiar is your name, lord
(lord father god lord
jesus father god) give us
everything we want
and forgive us our pleasures
as we pursue them anyway
for ours is the middle class
and the lifestyle
forever and ever
by birthright or hire purchase.
First published in NZ Baptist